I hate you.
Before you lift a lofty and proud head, I would like to quantify this letter even more to “you.” Though the Ancients gave you a face and the Medievals underscored their brilliance by mimicry, I do not flatter you so by designating to you any sort of persona.
Neither do I in any way give you any sort of gender. I know, just as those worthies above (please note, no sarcasm is applied, I very much revere and respect both the Ancients and the Medievals) that many if not all the world would engender you with that of the female persuasion. I refuse to pander my own sex concerning you. Neither will I allow you to claim that of the male gender; hard, flinty and without mercy, a masculinity without pity. And though many may scoff and sneer at my refusal to describe you in terms of the crone or with haggish mannerisms so associated with you, I refuse to stoop to describing you as a person of any sort.
Fate, you are so much more than a metaphor to either of mankind’s beleaguered genders and oh so much less…and that is the very reason I hate you.
You Fate are the very fabric of a larger and misty concept. Like the air, mankind breathes (oh and by the way, a feminist may check out now for again I repeat mankind – humankind clanks upon my old ears) you oh Fate is deception. Lies are your own personal underlings. You are the fabric of Deception – the very tool of Evil.
How many cultures, how many souls have endeavored to thwart you? You who are nothing? How many have whispered in surrender “God’s will be done,” and that statement the only evocation of God in their plight for they surrendered in their heart through teachings and philosophies that only endeavor to build defeatism?
The ancient Greets, the Romans as well, so enmeshed in flattery and brilliance, have fought the stone wall of you. What have you accomplished other than the idea that you have passively defeated us all? A man lies, belly down, in the dust and returns to his likeness upon an idea of you. Damn you.
Yes, indeed Fate, I hate you.
Even this letter is too much a tribute to you when the greater demon that props you up and gives you voice, like a great puppet master, is greater and deserves more respect than you. Yes, Deception is the life’s breath of you.
And what in the end does this letter prove?
That you Fate deserve no more than a snap of my fingers? Hardly, you have deceived the timeline too well for too long. But I will not leave you without a breath of the name that sizzles upon your ears: Faith. Why is it that the human soul cannot insist that Fate is indeed not in the same league as Faith? When will we kill the concept of fate and reach out to the very souls that Faith endures preserving?
Actually, the idea of death, or killing you puts you well into focus. The very reality of death (Death, whatever you please) puts you in the crosshairs of near extinction. You are, Fate, in reality too minuscule to kill – and unlike Faith, you prove no bridge to peace for those who live another day beyond catastrophe.
So I will take up the metaphoric kerchief of my own Dulcinea – a child perhaps or my own embattled Western culture – and tilt against your shadow, charge through your cloud of fog-like confusion and demand with my last breath that my brothers and sisters renounce the very concept of you.
In Stern and Cold Disdain,